The Dangers of Home Furnishings... Part 2: Stairs

Any one who has known me long enough also knows about my unfortunate ongoing battle with the complexities of stairs. For some reason, even though I would like to pride myself on a rather superb level of balance in all other areas of daily life, put a minimum of three consecutive steps in a sequence and I will eventually fail to navigate them at some point....the record still being three full flights from top to bottom in one go....which I don't wish to go into further details about right now, or ever. Hell, I've also had one incident when I fell flat on my face on level ground just having turned my head to the side to LOOK at a set of stairs!
So I suppose what is to follow here was an inevitability of sorts.

I work at a rather large art supply store here in Denver. Large enough that it has a second level that one needs to climb a set of metal stairs to reach. Having 37 years of prior stair falling experience under my belt, I have always taken great care with these, but having a broken foot it seems was the right mixture to trump carefulness altogether.
A little over a week ago, at a point in the healing process of said foot that saw the end of bandages, limping and what shall forever be known affectionately now as "the boot", I found myself descending these stairs on the way to retrieve an item for a conspiring customer. At one point (for once luckily near the bottom) while stepping down on the gimp foot it took it upon itself to basically re-break itself, or so it felt. A couple of things happen simultaneously here: first, having a blinding pain shoot up my leg from the offending foot in question caused my brain (who I'm beginning to believe was in on this the whole time) to shut off all weight bearing properties my leg normally would handle, causing me to topple forward.....second, this same brain then sent messages to my hands to instantly try to reach for and cradle the injured foot instead of putting them in front of myself to break the pending fall, leading to my striking the ground on both my chest and chin and creating such a dense resounding thud that I do remember witnesses gasping around me.

It's a curious thing, the sense of responsibility and appearance. I can be known to cuss like a sailor, especially when I've been injured or given a fifth ticket by the same cop for 'no front plate' when I CLEARLY HAVE A FUCKING FRONT PLATE ON MY CAR AND I DON'T KNOW WHO HE HAS CONFUSED ME WITH TO TRY TO GET EVEN WITH BY DOING THIS EVERY OTHER WEEK.....but I digress. The point is, somehow I was aware that I was still at work and did my best to stifle any and all obscenities that I might come up with, leaving me no outlet other than retardedly stupid mindless self-destructive violence than manifested itself in the form of punching what turned out to be an iron I-Beam.....which incidentally has absolutely no give to it.
The good news was that I punched this beam with my Dead Hand, so I did not feel any injuries occurring.....but that is also the bad news in and of itself. I didn't get worried until a bit later when I noticed that one of my knuckles had been pushed all the way in. But, I was reassured by the fact that I was still able to move all my fingers and wrist, so I ignored it. I got re-worried a few days ago after meeting someone and shaking their hand, only to find one of my fingers no longer wanting to obey my commands afterwards, until physically popping it back into has gotten stuck twice more since then. Bah!

While most of my blog entries has some variety of resolution, this one does not....other than me saying, "Fuck you Mr. Stairs....I'll take the elevator!"